


Deducted Myself From You

by Hibanai



Series: Once Wild Things [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Backstory, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Q is NOT a Holmes, Science Bros, Sentimental Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hibanai/pseuds/Hibanai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In boarding school they never warned him about blood-soaked men in alleyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deducted Myself From You

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read completely apart from the rest of the series. I really wanted a Q meets Sherlock fic so...here it is. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint.
> 
> Made a small edit on 4/16/2014, adding in a tiny scene.
> 
> Thanks to TriumphantDisaster for beta'ing this!

 The first thought that comes to mind, likely the most irrational he has ever had, is _vampire_.

"I don't suppose you're going to eat that," Q muses, raising an eyebrow at the sight in front of him. And what a sight it is. There's a teenager, maybe fifteen, kneeling on the ground in front of a decapitated body. He's cradling the head with his bare hands, seeming not to mind the fresh blood drenching his long fingertips. His trenchcoat blends into the dark of the alley, but his skin is so pale he practically glows in the dark. The thick wool does nothing to hide how _gangly_ he is.

Heck, the teen could probably use the meal, if the way his fingers are shaking is any indication. No, the shaking might be from something else, Q corrects when the stranger whips around at the sound of Q's voice, his dark brown eyes sweeping across Q's figure for not more than five seconds before he turns away. Q feels like he's been burned. A small, non-scientific part of him is surprised that the boy’s eyes didn’t have a supernatural glow to them. Not that he even believes in such nonsense, but if there was ever a time it’s now.

"You're not going to report me." His voice is low and deep, the enunciation crisp despite the blurring speed at which the words come out. Q bumps his mental estimate of the teen's age up to be around his own. "You're not scared, even. There's a freshly dead body, it's highly probable that I'm his killer, and you're weaponless, but you're not scared. Why are you not scared?"

"You're not carrying a weapon either."

"I could've hidden it. I could have piano wire in my pocket. Dull. Leave, you're ruining my thinking."

Q recoils at the insult, clenches his hands into fists. He is not dull. He takes a deep breath. "Your trenchcoat doesn't appear to have any blood on it and your supposed victim has at least two and a half stones on you. Even if you surprised him, there's no way you could've killed him easily, not with piano wire or something small. Not to mention, he's on his back so odds are he saw his attacker. You didn't roll him over, the blood would've pooled differently if you had. If you'd cut towards yourself, you would've gotten blood on your coat.

If you aren't his killer, then what are you doing in the alleyway? Your fingers are trembling, but not from fear or anything like that. Not to mention how bloodshot your eyes are. You're a druggie looking for a fix, not a killer, and I'm betting you're holding the head of your dealer. You knew this man."

"Lack of sleep. You're throwing out wild conjectures," the man retorts. "He's a drug dealer, no doubt samples his wares. His reactions would've been slowed enough for me to overtake him easily. Think," he seethes. "Think!" He whips around, eyes flickering wildly, but seeming to always come back to Q. The head's eyes don't move at all. "Why are you here? There's a reason you're here, but you're not the killer. You've no relation to anything." He gently sets the head down and stalks up to Q, eyes narrowing.

Q  forces himself to not flinch backwards, not even when the man whips a blood soaked hand through the air in a grand, accusatory gesture, splattering drops on Q's glasses and cheeks.

"Mycroft sent you, didn't he? You're not his usual type."

"Mycroft?" Q asks, wondering if the man before him is crazier than he'd originally thought.

"Not Mycroft then.” He smiles at this. “Tell me, what am I missing?"

"Aside from the drugs you're shaking for, several nights' worth of sleep, the identity of the killer, and any semblance of sanity?"

“Yes, the drugs!” More arm waving. More blood splatters. “I’m not the killer because I don’t have the drugs.”

“You could’ve killed him because he didn’t have the drugs,” Q points out. “You could’ve hidden them. You might even have them in your jacket pocket.” He doesn’t really believe that, but it feels vindictively good to throw the man’s words back at himself.

The crazy stops mid-gesture, hair still flopping around for a second, and brings a finger in front of his lips. “But I know I’m not the killer. You don’t.”

“I do, actually. The camera told me.”

“The camera?” His eyes dart around the alleyway, finally landing on the streetlight across the road. “It’s always something.” He tilts his head, and in that instant, looks childishly curious rather than psychotic. “I suppose you saw the killer then?”

Q nods. “Do you want to know who it is or should I just inform the police?”

“Neither. There’s no fun in cameras. They’re cheating, for people who aren’t clever.”

“I suppose you think yourself clever.”

The man merely grins. Q rolls his eyes and walks away after that. The madmen of London are not his problem - not even the attractive ones - not yet.

But he doesn’t report the incident. (Only because Scotland Yard is incompetent.)

\-------

Two days later, Q wakes to a loud thump and several muffled curses. He flops off of his couch - he must’ve not made it to bed last night, his glasses are still on even - and opens his door, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

On his welcome mat sits a heavyset, very unattractive and unhygienic looking man. His arms are handcuffed behind his back and his mouth is duct taped shut. That explains the muffled noises. What it doesn’t explain is everything the hell else.

Q glances down the hallway, wondering if maybe it’s some strange frat ritual, but there’s no one there. He glances at the man again, wondering what he should do. A strange niggling feeling tells him he’s missing something.

Q makes himself a cup of tea. It’s not like the man is going anywhere. Halfway through his first sip he realizes that the man on the doorstep is the killer from the other night. A grin makes its way uninvited onto Q’s face. It seems university might not be so dull after all.

\-------

“Another camera?” The man asks as Q approaches, not even looking up.

“Another body?” Q answers in turn. He isn’t seeking this man out, he just happened to be passing this alley on the way to his favorite cafe. It isn’t his normal route, but he has to get into the habit of not having routine. Practice for once he’s part of MI6.

“There’s always another body,” the man answers, turning to stare Q in eyes. His grin is a mix between gleeful and wolfish.

Werewolf then?

Q wants to hit himself upside the head for ever thinking something so silly. The man is far too skinny to be a werewolf. “And you just happen to turn up wherever they do?”

“Maybe your cameras lied to you. Maybe I am the killer. And you’re next.”

Q laughs. “Good luck getting past my front door.” Then he leaves because he’s really hungry and the cafe is serving tarts today. (He may have ensured that by modifying some shipments.)

Not to mention, he has a security system to go install.

\-------

Q unlocks his door, annoyed at the extra minute it takes to disarm his security. With little hope, he glances around his flat. Everything is untouched. Maybe he’d made it too hard? Then again, would it really be worth it if he’d made it easier and the clever crazy had succeeded? Q sighs to himself. God, he must be getting desperately lonely or bored if he’s contemplating such things.

It’s been a week and nothing extraordinary has happened. Q is sorely disappointed. He’d thought he’d finally found someone challenging.

 _Sherlock Holmes_ , the birth certificate had read. _Brilliant, but deranged and cruel_ , the teachers’ reports had said. _Psychopath_ , was the psychiatrist’s diagnosis. _Sociopath_ , Sherlock proclaimed with pride. _“High functioning.”_ Younger brother to Mycroft Holmes, the most dangerous man to never exist in the British government if you’re anyone short of the Queen or Q, he’s a drug addict and consulting detective _rolled_ in one. Q has read the police reports, which are unimaginative and dull compared to Sherlock’s feats, but Sherlock's recorded existence ends there. Sherlock is an enigma, a volatile unknown element. Q wants.

He stares at the grainy photos on his screen for a moment before shutting his laptop closed. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need Sherlock Holmes.

\-------

“I may have underestimated you,” is the first thing Q hears when he wakes the next morning. The scent of tea fills the air. It’s the only reason he manages to drag himself out of bed.

“I hope you made some for me,” Q grumbles, stumbling blindly into his kitchenette. A cup is pressed into his hand. He hesitantly takes a sip. “Oh god, this is amazing.” He slowly opens his eyes. The intruder is blurry because Q still has sleep in his eyes and the lights are off so there’s only a soft back glow of morning sun illuminating the man. Q thinks he looks a bit like an angel. It would explain how he got in. But that’s not the real test. “You haven’t even tried to get out yet.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “Doesn’t offer you much protection…” He claps his hands together under his chin. “Ah, I see. Clever, though a bit reckless. Vengeful too."

“You didn’t bring a killer with you today so I think I’m safe,” Q smiles.

“You sound disappointed,” Sherlock observes. Q wonders what else he observes. “I may have not brought a killer, but I did bring a mutual acquaintance.” Q blinks slowly. When his eyelids rise again there’s a skull on the table. He pokes it gingerly. It’s an actual skull. “I’m told it’s customary to bring a gift when invited to someone’s home.”

“This is from the drug dealer?”

“ _Is_ the drug dealer,” Sherlock corrects.

Q nods, pretending he understands Sherlock. “Er, thank you, but you should keep it. You knew him better than I did.”

“I don’t believe in sentiment.”

Q smiles at the proclamation and thinks of another excuse. “He’d clash with my furniture.”

Sherlock gazes around Q’s small flat skeptically. His aristocratic features perfectly display the disdain he feels. “Everything clashes with your furniture. Your furniture clashes with your furniture.” Still, to Q’s relief, he tucks the skull back into his bag.

“How did you break in?” Q asks, changing the topic.

“Balcony. You were lazy.” Sherlock snaps, as if Q’s laziness is a personal insult. Not that Q was that lazy. The balcony door’s glass is reinforced and bulletproof. The handle has a live current going through it and the keypad to open the door is hidden in the bird feeder. Also, Q is on the 13th floor.

“How’d you know about the keypad?” The door appears like it has a normal, mechanical lock.

Sherlock scoffs. “It was too easy. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. Furthermore, you’re a technophile. There’s no way you’d trust a mechanical lock. As for the passcode, you left your fingerprints over the numbers. You used your birthday. Really?”

“You know my birthday,” Q deadpans.

“You go by Q, real name unknown, you’re an only child, parents out of the picture.  You go to university, although you don’t attend class and despise your classmates. Your grades are perfect though; I suspect you’re being sponsored by someone, or perhaps your parents would cut you off otherwise. No friends, paranoid, bored, somewhat brilliant. You’re arrogant to the point of reckless, shown by the small scars on your hands, which undoubtedly extend to other parts of your person. Burn yourself once or twice or a hundred times, did you? And you liked it. I know that you sleep with a security blanket and you get pleasure from being tied up. Your birthday was easy.”

Q ducks his head, but fires back, “I think you enjoy the sound of your own voice.” Not that Q minds. It’s a nice voice, hypnotizing even, though the words make him curl up and die of embarrassment. “And that this isn’t the first time you broke into my flat. There’s no way you know any of that, _Sherlock_.”

This earns him a sharp laugh. He straightens his spine, glowers at Sherlock, despite the red on his cheeks. Sherlock stares right back, unblinking. “You think you’re more complicated, that you’re above the others? _You’re easy_. You were hunched over your cup, cradling it with both hands, you like having something to cling to. There was a slight indentation on your cheek when you walked in: security blanket. There’s a tie strewn on your couch, yet you obviously don’t care for appearances as indicated by the rest of closet and your states when you ‘bumped’ into me: you like the feeling of constriction. And you know what else? You’re nothing without your fancy gadgets. They tell you what to see, but you don’t observe. So you know my name.”

“I know more than that,” Q retorts. Sherlock grins indulgently, as if whatever Q says next will only serve to humor him. “You’re lonely.”

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t get lonely.”

“You like to think that, that you’re above everyone else, but I don’t think you’re a sociopath at all.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

Q shrugs, pours himself more tea. “Pity, I thought your deductions were brilliant. Almost as good as your tea. Although, the jump from wearing ties to enjoying bondage was a bit far-fetched."

Sherlock perks up immediately. “So I got everything right then?” He asks, completely ignoring Q's skepticism of his logic.

“Not quite.”

Sherlock frowns. “What’d I get wrong then?”

“I can’t just tell you, that’d ruin the fun of it,” Q teases.

“I hate you. And I am a high-functioning sociopath.”

Q’s eye roll gets cut off by a beep.

“What was that?” Sherlock asks, looking in the direction of Q’s bedroom, where the sound had come from.

“That, was the sound of someone being murdered.”

Sherlock lights up, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Just for me?”

Q grabs his coat off the back of his couch, where he’d thrown it yesterday. “Won’t even cheat. Now are you coming?”

\-------

“Oh god, the freaks have multiplied.”

“Donovan,” Sherlock whispers out of the side of his mouth, not looking up from batch of maggots crawling out a dead man’s stomach. “She’s pleased to meet you.”

“Not multiplication. Addition,” Q corrects. Then, to Sherlock, he stage whispers, “I see her reports are an accurate representation of her intellect. I didn’t think that possible.”

He doesn’t even know the woman, but he can practically feel her roll her eyes as she stalks away, heels clicking against the pavement. Heels. She wore heels to a crime scene. Q is left reeling for a few seconds. It’d make sense if the heels doubled as a weapon of some sort - he remembers that for later, not that he ever wears heels - but he doubts that’s her reasoning.

“She’s sleeping with Anderson,” Sherlock quips, as if he knows what Q’s thinking. Which, Q thinks, he actually might. He stores that information next to the blueprints for weaponized heels.

\-------

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock springs from his chair and grabs his coat, mumbling, “So obvious, how didn't I see it before?”

Q lifts his head off the book he’d fallen asleep on. “Who is it? Sherlock, don’t you think we should tell Lestrade instead of storming after the killer ourselves? The killer is probably-” The front door clicks shut. Q scrambles into the hallway, but the single elevator is already descending, Sherlock in it. Knowing Sherlock, there’s probably a cab magically waiting at the curb as well. There’s no way Q will catch him.

Q pulls out his phone and starts writing a scathing text, only to remember that Sherlock broke his phone last night in a hissy fit. Q sighs and sulks back to the flat to figure out whatever the hell Sherlock didn’t bother to tell him.

\-------

Q is sprinting up the stairs when he hears a gunshot. He curses Sherlock, his own lack of fitness, and everything in general. When this is over he’ll sign up for a gym membership or something, just let Sherlock still be alive when he gets there. By the time he's at the door, which of course, is locked, he's panting for breath. He’d shoot the lock, but he’s not stupid; unfortunately that only works in movies. He melts the hinges to the door instead - courtesy of the high density laser attachment on the pocketknife he'd gotten on his last birthday - and kicks it in.

Just in time to see Sherlock fall to the floor after a gunshot. Q doesn’t think, just points the laser at the shooter. The shooter screams, drops the gun, and Sherlock uses the opportunity to tackle the man to the floor. Q immediately swings the laser pointer away before he can accidentally burn Sherlock.

“Are you an idiot?” He screams. It’s a fucking rhetorical question though, because yes, Sherlock is a bloody mental fool.  Q rakes his eyes up and down Sherlock’s body to check and make sure the detective isn’t actually bloody.

The criminal screams from underneath Sherlock, no doubt in pain, and Sherlock grabs his head, slamming it hard into the ground. The screams stop. “Please, save the lecture, you should know better than to expect me to -”

“You should’ve fallen to your right side, not your left,” Q yells, pointing at where Sherlock had fallen behind a table, but in front of a wall, which the bullet had ricocheted off of. If he had gone right, he would’ve been able to duck behind an ottoman - smaller, yes, but in front of a couch, which the bullet wouldn’t have ricocheted off of despite the low caliber of the handgun the shooter was using.

Sherlock looks to at where Q is pointing. “Oh. You’re right. Imagine that. Anyways, it wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t taken so long to get here.”

Q calls the police and requests two ambulances.

\-------

“You should adopt a cat,” Q suggests, entirely serious, when he finds Sherlock on his couch, stabbing what Q thinks might’ve been a kidney and... are those bollocks on his floor? “Maybe then you wouldn’t get lonely and break into my flat all the time. And you might learn some responsibility or something. Did you really have to remove the brick and cut the wires?” Also, maybe then Sherlock would stop talking to the damn skull whenever Q starts ignoring him. “And get your bollocks off my floor.”

“Please, I’d forget to water it and it’d die. And those aren’t mine. Mine are on your couch.”

Q blinks. “Cats need to be watered? And you know what I mean.”

Sherlock waves a hand. “I don’t know. Something like that. I deleted it.”

“I’ll just look it up then.”

Predictably, Sherlock huffs, ”No cheating.”

Five hours later, they stumble into the flat, covered in bites and scratches, and not the fun kind, at that. Q rubs his arm where he had to get a rabies shot.

“Next time I’m cheating,” he grumbles.

“No cat.” Sherlock looks entirely too pleased with himself, but Q is too exhausted to argue or kill him. The bollocks are still on the floor.

\-------

“You’re a bit obvious, aren’t you?” Q notes, facing the camera that had swiveled towards him. A second later, a black car pulls up to the curb beside him. He has to resist the urge to sigh as he slides into it. He has enough overdramatics to deal with already, courtesy of Sherlock. What is it with the Holmes brothers and their need for dramatics? (He’d ask what’s wrong with them, but he already knows the answer to that.)

On the other side of the seat there’s a young woman tapping away at her phone. “I don’t suppose you’re Mycroft,” he deadpans. She looks up at him then turns back to her phone. Well then. At least they didn’t blindfold him. Or take his glasses away, which would achieve the same effect, really.

The car stops in front of an old, abandoned factory of all places and Q resists the urge to roll his eyes. The most powerful person to never exist in the British government and this is the best he can do? The woman attached to her cell phone motions for him to shoo with one hand, not even looking up.

“You should hire a new assistant,” Q suggests to the empty factory. A second later, a plump man steps out of the shadows. Q raises an eyebrow and wonders if he’s been duped. There’s no way this man is related to Sherlock. They look nothing alike.

“I see why you and Sherlock get along,” the pudgy man remarks and ah, there’s the family resemblance. They have the same posh, condescending tone. “I have an offer for you Q, or perhaps I should say -”

“You shouldn’t. And I’m not interested.”

“I hear you want to be MI6, so you should enjoy this sort of thing, really.”

“You want me to spy on Sherlock. Don’t you have your cameras for that?”

“He practically lives at your flat now,” Mycroft counters and Q knows for a fact that Mycroft probably tried to bug his flat. He mentally pats himself on the back for installing a security system that could keep Mycroft out, although he’d had to make some changes per Sherlock’s recommendations. Q now has four bird feeders, as well as a squirrel feeder, which is honestly just ridiculous and probably one of Sherlock’s tricks, on his balcony. Oddly enough, it’s always the squirrel feeder that empties the fastest.

“I’d rather not start my career in espionage by committing an act of espionage against a British citizen. Besides, you have nothing I want.”

“I could prevent you from joining MI6.”

“You could, but you won’t; I’m far too valuable and they need me.”

“I have secrets that might interest you. Have you heard of an Alec Trevelyan?”

Q sees why Sherlock hates Mycroft so much. “I don’t think you do. I’d like to leave now and you’re not going to stop me, not unless you want a minor crisis on your minor government official hands.”

Mycroft lets him walk.

\-------

Being around Sherlock means there’s never a dull moment. It's a welcome relief from the boredom of uni. It’s also the most fun Q has had in a long time: liberating (in every sense, seeing how many laws they break).

Until it isn’t.

“Somehow, this isn’t all that surprising,” Q drawls. The cot he’s sitting on could be hardly called that and the handcuffs they slapped on him are too tight to be remotely comfortable.

Beside him, Sherlock breaks into a fit of giggles. Their captor glares at them through the cell bars and then Q is giggling too. The handcuffs rattle along and for some reason, that makes the whole situation even funnier. “What was your first hint?” Sherlock wheezes out once he stops laughing too hard to talk.

“The dead body you were kneeling over when I first met you.” That, among other things.

The copper looks slightly alarmed at Q’s proclamation, but neither Q nor Sherlock can be bothered to care. If they really wanted, they could be out of here in minutes. That would mean missing out on seeing Mycroft looking royally displeased though, so they’re staying. Just for that. Q doesn’t understand why he always gets so mad. It’s not like Sherlock or Q actually murdered anyone. It’s just that Scotland Yard is so full of imbeciles that they think Sherlock and Q did, when really, Sherlock and Q are trying to help. Scotland Yard really, really needs the help.

\-------

Sherlock is hunched over the toilet, wretching violently. There are needle marks on his forearm, a bruise on his face and a stab wound on his leg, and a sheen of sweat mixed with grime covers his skin. He’s an absolute mess.

He looks completely, utterly, human.

Q holds Sherlock’s hair and pets his back soothingly. The detective would normally protest, but now isn’t normal and instead Q is handed a bloodied syringe and a small pouch filled with god only knows what.

\-------

 Sherlock botches a simple experiment. It's a hot summer day and their AC isn't working because a certain consulting detective destroyed the wiring for it the last time he broke into the flat and Q hasn't had time to fix it since, too busy and exhausted from cases and... some more illicit activities. As such, Q's only protection is a thin wife beater and a pair of cargo shorts when the beaker explodes behind him. 

He feels it sooner than he hears it, stinging pain crawling up his back. 

"Sorry," Sherlock says, helping Q to the couch. He  _looks_ sorry, even sounds it, but Q knows him better than that.

"That better have been calculated," Q grunts, lying on his front. Judging by how fast the first aid kit appears, it was. "Didn't even ask if I was alright."

"Of course you'll be alright. I'm not an idiot." Sherlock cuts through the back of Q's shirt. "They'll scar."

"Sherlock," he begins, but ends up hissing when the detective is none too gentle when pulling a shard of glass out with a pair of tweezers.

"Save the lecture. You'll hardly notice them."

He notices, the muted pain a constant throughout the day. Later, Q surveys his back in the mirror, twisting to get a better view. He traces the cuts, playing connect the dots, drawing red lines as his fingers dig into the skin with how furious he is. _"You liked it,"_ he hears Sherlock say in his mind. As always, Sherlock isn't wrong. _"_ _You're arrogant to the point of reckless."_ If only Sherlock knew how right he was. Thinking that he could be unaffected by Sherlock, that he could stay detached, was the most arrogant, reckless, and self-destructive thought Q had ever had. 

Q isn't angry with Sherlock - he should be angry with Sherlock, if he was anywhere near being a rational being he would be downright _livid_ - he's angry with himself for not being angry at Sherlock. This has to end.

\-------

“I think I’m high,” Q slurs, leaning his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The room keeps spinning. Why is it spinning? He can’t figure out why it’s spinning. It doesn’t make sense. “I can always figure out…”

Sherlock breaks out into a fit of giggles. “Feeling mortal? This is as close as it gets.”

“You’re human too.”

“But I don’t _feel_. This, this is all transport a puppet for my mind to control.”

“I like your mind,” Q mumbles. “Could do without the mouth though.”

Sherlock turns to face Q.

Q licks his lips, finding them suddenly dry.

“Really?” Sherlock asks, leaning down so far that Q thinks Sherlock might kiss him.

“I think I’m high,” Q sighs, flopping onto his back, away from Sherlock. Sherlock passes him the roll in reply. Q’s thoughts drift after that, but they always circle back to Sherlock. Sherlock, who is practically made for him, but is, in no way, good for him.

\-------

“Someone stole money from the Queen’s bank account. I don’t suppose either of you know who the culprit is, hmm?” Mycroft muses.

“You gave Lestrade a warrant to search our flat for drugs just for this?” Sherlock seethes.

“Well if you hadn’t possessed any drugs you wouldn’t be here, now would you?” Mycroft argues smugly.

“They didn’t find any drugs. It was the taser sword that landed us here.” Q lets the threat hang in the air.

“Well, now that you’re both done being angry, back to the original question, if you could possibly focus, Sherlock.”

Q and Sherlock both shrug. “Brother, if you let us out, perhaps we could actually be of use to you.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but releases them anyways. The second they’re back in their flat, they burst into laughter.

“You little shit,” Q accuses. “You said it was Mycroft’s. The Queen. I stole the Queen’s money. On accident.”

“It’s Mycroft’s fault for cancelling his credit card.” Sherlock snorts. “Besides, it went towards a good cause. More use than the Scotland Yard. They didn’t even find the drugs.”

“Oh god. The Queen just paid for us to get high.”

“Like I said. Good cause.”

“I can’t believe you just made that pun.”

“I can’t believe you stole from the Queen. Why would you do that? Honestly.”

“It made you smile.”

“I don’t believe in sentiment.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Oh.” Sherlock becomes completely serious. He clears his throat. “Well, I like experimenting with you.”

Q grins. “No cheating.”

\-------

“You’re thinking too rationally,” Q points out, tired of standing in this dead-end of an alley where far too many rapes have taken place. Sherlock’s head snaps up. Q doesn’t know why the detective is down there in the first place. There’s nothing here save a feeling of uneasiness and the scent of trash. “You can’t rationally predict the way someone who is beyond irrational will act. The woman is mad with grief, anger, hurt, or any numbers of things.”

“Oh, you have an idea where the murderer has gone then?” It’s an obvious barb. For all that Sherlock seems crazy and irrational, he has logical reasons for nearly everything, no matter how far fetched. It’s Q, for all his neat lines of code and arguments, who is the irrational one.

“Yes.”

They find her hours later, following Q’s hunch. He knows all too well what the woman is going through and it’s far too easy to find her: at a club, searching for her next victim. As they lead her into a police car, Sherlock looks at Q and hums thoughtfully.

Q smiles at him. “Something on your mind?”

“Always.”

Of course.

\-------

"I dislike sex," Sherlock proclaims over takeout. Q blinks, unsure why Sherlock would bring it up.

"So do I," Q admits because he knows better than to try to lie or pretend around Sherlock, and braces himself for a scathing rehash of his past that he really doesn’t want to hear.

Sherlock give him a long, evaluating look. "I know." The words are uncharacteristically gentle and said hesitantly, as if Sherlock is unsure of them, ready to take them back at any second.

Sherlock always claims to be above sentiment. This is the only evidence to the contrary Q has ever witnessed.

Q hates it.

\-------

“You’re joining MI6,” Sherlock half states, half asks over the din of the bar. They’re celebrating Q’s release from uni. Graduated, at last.

“You say that as if you didn’t see it coming.”

“I thought you would change your mind. You’re going to become boring.”

“I’ve always been boring. It’s you who has become sentimental, Sherlock.”

“People change Q, it’s what they do.”

“You’ve never considered yourself people.”

“Things change.”

“I’m changing the code tomorrow.” They both know that that couldn’t stop Sherlock from breaking in if he really wanted to.

“Why?”

“I dislike sentiment.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, tilts his head back. “I see.” A year ago, maybe even a month or two ago, he would’ve agreed. Q wishes he would. “Run along then. What are you waiting for? Go on.” He makes a shooing motion, lightly hitting Q in the shoulder in the process.

Q slides a few coins onto the counter. He tries to ignore the double meaning in Sherlock’s words and pretends to not look at Sherlock’s reflection in the door as he leaves. Even though Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, the detective would still probably know.

\-------

John pauses, glancing from the table to Sherlock. "Sherlock, why do you have a skull?"

"Talking to it helps me think." Sherlock replies offhandedly. “It reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Do I want to know who?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, no you don’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
